


The Problem With Hope

by starry19



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry19/pseuds/starry19
Summary: "There was his proof positive, he would think later. She had not chosen him. She would give him her trust, but not her heart. She would come back to offer them help, a chance to save Rufus, but with Wyatt at her side, and not him."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of what will be probably be at least three, depending on what my brain wants to do.

He should have known better than to get his hopes up. 

Should have known that there was no possible she would choose him, that the woman who had pulled him back from the edge of both suicide and mass homicide would, in the end, leave him behind. 

But _still_. 

God, he had hoped. 

Had hoped that night in San Antonio, when she’d smiled at him. Or later, back in their own time, when she’d appeared at his door, all dark eyes and dark hair and pale skin. And again when he’d been on his knees in front of her, almost daring enough to tell her that _she_ was the reason, his only reason. 

He had gone to check on her, the unpleasant business of having stitches put in and then attempting to shower and dress with only one arm working finally completed. 

And, oh, he had found her. 

Sitting next to Wyatt, their postures identical, both of them looking heartsick. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it could hardly have been anything else. 

She was going to take him back, the son of a bitch who had broken her heart and gotten Rufus killed because he was busy clinging to some desperate hope that his miracle came with no strings attached. Wyatt was the reason Lucy drank too much and hardly ate, at least partly, though he was willing to admit he was probably not the only factor. 

Now the other man was going to get to hold her, to sleep beside her, to do and say ridiculous things to try and make her smile. 

Not him. 

It _hurt_. Hurt in ways he had not been anticipating. Since he’d met Lucy in a bar all those years ago - and Christ, it felt like a lifetime, or several of them - she had been consuming him.Even so, up until a few months ago, he wasn’t sure if he had ever truly believed they had any sort of shot at an actual relationship. He had burnt too many bridges, some of them literal, committed too many sins on a massive scale, to ever deserve even a fraction of her affection. 

Apparently, he had been correct. 

Quietly, he moved to duck away. This was not a situation he needed to be found in. 

And then time bent. 

He stared at the dirty, battered couple that climbed out of the new Lifeboat. Numb, he felt numb with total shock. 

There was his proof positive, he would think later. She had not chosen him. She would give him her trust, but not her heart. She would come back to offer them help, a chance to save Rufus, but with Wyatt at her side, and not him.

He wanted to be bitterly flippant about it - what was one more broken heart? - but he just couldn’t. She was _his reason_. 

The future versions of half their team didn’t stay long. They had a conversation with Jiya and Mason, most of which he didn’t understand, and then ducked back into the Lifeboat. Even if the technology existed, it still had to be massively dangerous, crossing your own lifeline. And God only knew what they had just come from. 

He still felt curiously numb. He suspected it was going to abruptly end, this feeling, and he was going to have the sensation of his heart absolutely shattering. 

With a sigh, he pushed open the door to his room. 

And then stopped dead. 

Lucy was in his chair, legs drawn up, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, clearly deep in thought. She looked up at him, startled. 

He stared. 

“Sorry,” she said, sitting up straighter. “It’s just…I didn’t know where else to go…” She trailed off, a little sheepishly. “I just didn’t want to talk to anyone else, and I sort of figured no one but you would find me here.” 

There were a great many things to unpack in that statement, but one fact stood out. She had deliberately hidden herself away from everyone but him. 

Was Wyatt included in that? She hadn’t chosen him for this moment, at least. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed and sat. 

She hadn’t chosen Wyatt. 

She was _here_. Knowing that he would be here, too. 

There was a cautious stirring of hope. 

“How are you holding up?” he asked. 

She snorted, and a twisted expression crossed her face. “I have absolutely no idea. I just met my future self, and Wyatt’s, and they gave us a chance to get Rufus back, and my mother is dead, and Wyatt told me he loved me, and I just have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing or feeling right now.” 

Her words felt like a blow. 

Wyatt had told her he loved her. Despite his incredulity that the other man had one, waited until now to tell her and two, had decided the time period immediately following the murder of their best friend and Lucy’s _mother_ was the appropriate time to make such a declaration, he wondered what effect it had on Lucy. She loved him, obviously. Was this the catalyst that would bring her back?

And yet…she was still in his room. Keeping his face neutral was a monumental effort. “It’s too bad we drank all the vodka, hm?” 

He would not push. He would not add to the list of issues she was dealing with. She was here. She had come to him. 

Again. 

She looked at him, and he didn’t look away. 

Lucy let out a breath, went to run a hand down her face, then remembered at the last minute it would be a bad idea. “Is it okay that I’m here?” she asked, abruptly. She was uncertain, and he hated it. 

“Of course,” he said. A little incredulously. It was outrageous that she doubted herself, doubted him. But he couldn’t tell her, not just now. 

She relaxed, shifting in his chair. It looked like she’d commandeered his blanket as well. That was alright - having his bedding smell like her was hardly unpleasant, though it did terrible things to his psyche. 

And to his heart. 

There was something more than slightly pathetic about closing your eyes and pretending a pillow was the woman you wanted.

It was worth it, however. Sleeping with the memory that she had occupied this space, too. 

The small alarm clock on his desk said it was very early in the morning. They had, all of them, been up for over 36 hours. 

With effort, he stood. Gestured at his bed with one hand, resigned to uncomfortable vinyl couches for the evening. Hell, he was tired enough that he could probably sleep on the bare floor. “Go to bed,” he said, softly. “I think we all need the sleep.” 

She didn’t argue, which he almost expected. 

Instead, she arranged herself on the narrow mattress, curled onto her side. He smiled just a bit, then turned. Before he could move, small fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Stay,” she said, very quietly. 

Fine. Bare floor it was. Or chair? His neck was not a fan of that idea. Still, it wouldn’t be worse than some stupid couch that was made out of -

She tugged at his wrist. Pulled gently. 

The implications took just a second. Stay with her? Fall asleep with her warm weight against his chest? 

As if he could ever tell her no. 

He saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes again, and he hated it. Hated himself for putting it there. _God, yes, Lucy, I want you here with me so much._ And so he smiled at her, carefully eased into bed beside her, the uninjured side of her face pressed against the uninjured side of his chest. 

The really were quite the team. 

Lucy sighed into his shirt, one arm at his waist. “You are the one good thing that has come out of the past two months,” she whispered.

Her words hit him strongly, and he tightened his hold on her. “Thanks for breaking me out of prison,” he whispered. 

She almost laughed. “Anytime.”

Silence wrapped around them, not uncomfortable, but safe. 

_What did you say back to Wyatt?_

God, he so wanted to know. But he would never ask. He didn’t have a right to that information. She was here, now, half asleep on his chest, and he would be eternally grateful for it.

His brain informed him that Lucy was not the sort to return an “I love you” to one man and then crawl into bed with another a few hours later. If he followed that thought through to its logical conclusion, that meant she hadn’t said or done anything to make Wyatt believe that they were going to be picking up the threads of their old relationship. 

Deep within his heart, the holes that the jagged edges had left felt a little smaller. 

His good hand traced down her back. Such a fragile thing, Lucy. Every rib, every vertebra, imprinted against his fingertips. How much pain could she possibly endure? How much could she truly be expected to bear? 

He knew from her journal that Lucy would go through a great deal more than this. 

And yet, it was impossible to imagine, now that he knew the woman, and not just the words she’d written. It had been easier, before, when she was some mythical figure to him. The Destroyer of Rittenhouse, as it were. Larger than life. 

In reality, a damaged, bruised, petite woman was clinging to his shirt like it was all that was holding her to earth. Her sudden grip brought him back to the present. 

“What?” he murmured to her hair. 

She shook her head. “Just…just trying to process,” she said, trying to master herself. 

He frowned, slowly brought his injured arm over to touch the edge of her jaw. She looked up at him. “Cry,” he said, “if it makes you feel better.”

Her lips quivered, and he felt her muscles tighten. “I’ll ruin your shirt,” she half-whispered, voice wavering. 

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got more.” 

She shook her head again. “I don’t _want_ to cry,” she told him, suddenly fierce. “Not for my mother. And I won’t cry for Rufus because that feels like giving up on him.”

He understood all of this, and yet, she was wound so tightly he knew she was bound to snap. “Then cry for me,” he suggested. “I haven’t had a very good day either.” 

Unexpectedly, she giggled. 

And then she sobbed. 

He held her through the tears, whispering to her in Croatian, thankful that she had no idea what he was saying, or stroking her hair, or simply praying that he could be what she needed. Her pain was his pain, and God, she was in a lot of it right now. 

When her sobs tapered off, she lay limply across his chest, hair damp at her temples, their fingers tangled together and resting over his heart. 

“Thank you for holding me together,” she finally whispered. “Again. You seem to be unusually talented at it.” 

He almost snorted, though her attempt at humor was appreciated. Instead, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it softly. He didn’t want to be nonchalant because the number of times she’d been alone and at her breaking point was alarming. But it also wasn’t the night for confessions from him. 

“Try to sleep,” he murmured. “It’s been a terrible day and a half. Your body and your mind need a break.”

Her face was going to hurt like hell when she woke up, as were his injuries. He briefly wondered what sort of aches and pains he would have if life was anything approaching normal, but he realized he had forgotten what normal life _was_. 

Lucy shifted a little, laid her head on a drier part of his shirt. 

“The one good thing,” she said again, very quietly, pressed as tightly against him as she could get. 

He stayed awake for much longer than he had anticipated, mind trying to come to grips with this extraordinary turn of events. Her hair smelled like strawberries, but when he slept, he did not dream about milkshakes, as she had. 

His dreams were full of dark curls and dark eyes and the way she sometimes smiled at him. 

And when he woke, Lucy still soundly out, he realized he had done a very stupid thing.

He had started to hope again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have many apologies to make. One, that this took so very, very long. I rather fell out of fandom life for a month or so. This was not necessarily a bad thing. Two, for whatever typographical errors you may find this piece. I don’t use betas, and I wrote it with only one contact in. Whee!

 

 

She woke to a pounding headache and the feeling of soft cotton against her cheek. She lay very still for a few minutes, adjusting to her surroundings. 

The headache came from the absolute beating she had taken at Emma’s hands. And the steady thrum of a heartbeat belonged to Flynn, his good arm still wrapped around her. According to the streaked plexiglass slats on the wall, it was still night.

Heaven and hell, all together. 

She needed to stop crying on the poor man, she thought. He didn’t appear to mind, but she didn’t want him to think that she continued to lean on him because she just needed someone to hold her for a while. 

That was certainly true, but there was more, too. 

She just…she wanted him.

He made her smile, made her feel safe, never asked for anything in return. Being with him was the easiest thing in the world, or at least, it was when she let her guard down, let him in. 

She’d asked him if she could trust him, just before their trip to Salem. He’d nodded once, but that was the end of it. He had done everything in his power to earn that trust, to let her know she hadn’t made a mistake, either professionally or personally. 

And now she was on the verge of trusting him with everything she had. 

She shifted a little, face tipping up. He was already awake, green eyes warm and soft. He only ever looked this way for her, she suddenly thought. She got to see the Garcia Flynn no one else believed existed. 

He smiled at her, and she snuggled back into his arms, not willing to give this moment up just yet. 

For his part, Flynn didn’t seem inclined to kick her out of bed immediately, his hands brushing over her hair, down her back, lingering here and there, as if he was having difficulty with the idea of letting her go. 

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on her part. Perhaps he was just very good at being a gentleman. 

They could, her brain informed her, have a conversation about this, like normal people. But they were both very far from normal. 

And there was always the heartbreaking possibility of _what if_. What if he didn’t want her? What if he didn’t feel a thing when she was in his arms? What if he had never imagined what it would be like to make love to her? 

She didn’t think she could quite deal with that scenario. 

Not knowing was much better. If she knew, maybe she wouldn’t be able to pretend that he dreamed about her, that he was in this God-awful bunker just for her, that he thought about kissing her when his eyes sometimes dropped to her mouth. 

Yes, not knowing was certainly better. 

She burrowed deeper into his embrace, and he gently tugged the gray wool blanket up to her shoulders.

“Cold?” he murmured. 

She was always cold, had been for months. Except that now she had a six and a half foot tall Croatian NSA agent wrapped around her. 

“No,” she whispered back. 

Flynn shifted her slightly, bringing her closer. She loved how this felt, tangled up with him. So safe, so protected. He smelled good, aftershave and a trace of cologne and something intrinsically him. 

She could see the square outline of the gauze pad taped to his arm, a reminder that Emma had nearly taken him away, too. She hadn’t realized, when he’d held her in that alley, that he was bleeding freely, a remorseless piece of metal having ripped through him. It must have been agony, but he never let on. 

“How’s the arm?” she asked now, striving for casual. 

“I’ll do,” he said, noncommittally

Unexpectedly, he sat moved, back against his pillow. Tipped her chin up, very gently. Frowned at the pound of mince that passed for her cheek and eye.

“God, your lovely face,” he whispered. 

She shrugged. “Apparently it’ll heal.” She hadn’t detected any trace of this injury on her future self. 

His thumb brushed over the edge of her jaw and back again, and the moment stretched between them. 

“What were you going to tell me?” she asked quietly, quickly. Before she lost her nerve. Before she could even think about it. “When Wyatt interrupted.” 

His hand stilled. He took a breath, then met her eyes.

She _knew_ what he was going to say. It couldn’t be anything else. And still, she wanted to hear it. 

Carefully, with the barest amount of pressure, his thumb traced her bottom lip, avoiding the cuts. 

“Not today,” he finally whispered, then smiled. “I think there’s probably enough for you to deal with at the moment.” 

Her sense of disappointment was immediate. And painful. And, apparently, very obvious. 

“Soon,” he said, hand still cupping her face. “I promise. When we get Rufus back.” 

She did not approve of this answer. Was possibly pouting. Or she would have, if it didn’t hurt her face so badly. 

And Flynn chuckled, lowly. 

To her surprise, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the undamaged side of her face. 

Oh, God. Was this happening?

She wondered, even as Flynn wrapped her up in his arms again, her head next to his heart once more. 

She didn’t want to think about it. All she knew was that he was solid, he was here, he had never lied to her, he had never broken her heart. 

She had needed the acknowledgment from Wyatt that he loved her. Despite everything that had happened between them, her heart still fluttered. She thought she understood what he was doing. He had…a lot to make up for. She wasn’t at all sure that he _could_ make up for it. But it was important for her to know that he did love her, that she hadn’t just been a fling, that his heart had been involved as well. 

God, but everything was such a disaster. 

She closed her eyes. 

When she woke, she was on her back, tucked under a blanket, her head on a pillow that smelled disarmingly like Flynn. 

He wasn’t in the room.

Blinking, she padded out to the main part of the bunker, saw Jiya and Conner still frantically working. The look of hope in their eyes had not diminished, and she took heart from that.

She also took an ice pack from the freezer. 

Flynn and Wyatt were having a quiet conversation, mostly about what Flynn knew about crossing your own lifeline. 

Men, she thought. Literally a day ago, they were beating the hell out of each other. And then they had gone into battle together. She chose to ignore that Flynn had told her yesterday that he would really like to kill Wyatt. It was probably hyperbole. She hoped. 

She sat down in a chair by herself, not wanting to make any sort of unintentional declarations, and gingerly pressed the ice to her face. This damn bruise was going to be an absolute rainbow of colors before it was all over. 

There was a sudden silence from behind them. 

Conner appeared. 

“We’ve got it.”

 

Jiya’s eyes were shining. “We’ve got _Rufus_.” 

It was chaos after that. 

Four hours later, she anxiously hugged Wyatt, Flynn, and Jiya as they boarded the Lifeboat. She had been left behind, this not being a mission where a historian was required. Instead, both of her boys had been armed to the teeth, Flynn shucking his sling.

He had gently touched her face once, then he was gone. 

They all were gone.

And she waited.

And waited. 

Shut herself in Flynn’s room and tried to not panic. 

An hour later, Agent Christopher came to find her. She refused to talk about the mission, but instead, taught her the basics of knitting. She was terrible at it, but it was distracting. 

It seemed to her that the mission was taking too long. But what did she know?

A full fifteen hours later, time bent, and she waited, not breathing. 

Out they came, looking worse than they had, bloodied, more battered. Flynn, Wyatt, Jiya.

Rufus.

She shrieked and ran to him. He caught her, whole and solid and _breathing._ And it was alright, _she_ could breathe again, too. 

Rufus gently pulled back to look at her. “Holy crap, Lucy,” he said. “What happened to your face?” 

She grinned. It hurt. “I’m pretty sure I was trying to avenge your death.” 

He gave her a look. “It didn’t go well, did it?” 

She laughed, even though she had been pretty sure she would never even smile again. 

It was the best night they’d had in ages. Whatever grudges were held were postponed. Agent Christopher had gone to get them pizza and had returned with a healthy supply of alcohol as well. 

It was very late (or early, more like) when things settled down. Wyatt had passed out on the couch, and she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go back to the room he’d shared with Jessica. 

Instead, she’d draped a blanket over him, then gone to find Flynn again. It was becoming a habit of hers. 

He looked like he had been waiting for her. 

And was very relieved she had shown up. 

He also looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes very dark, eyes much more bloodshot than the few beers he’d had accounted for.

“You need to go to sleep,” she chided, but softly.

“Probably,” he said, sounding unconcerned. 

“Go,” she told him, making a shooing motion at his unmade bed. Unmade, of course, because she had been the last one in it.

He raised an eyebrow. Appeared to be debating with himself.

Then he held out a hand. “Stay with me tonight,” he said, very softly. “Just to sleep,” he added, as though either of them were in any sort of condition to do anything else. 

And, oh God, she could see in his eyes that he really and truly wanted her to stay. She was surprised at her own flare of yearning. To be held, to be protected. To be warm, safe. 

So she placed her fingers in his palm, let him lead her. 

His good arm went around her, protecting her back from the rasping of the wall, and she rested on her side, her head on his chest. 

She took a breath in.

She had not expected how right this felt. 

He turned his head slightly, pressed his lips against her forehead. “Do you want to know?” he murmured. 

Her eyes closed. “Know what?”

She could feel him smile. “What I was going to say.” 

Well, they were already here. Why not, she thought, recklessly. 

“Yes,” she breathed. 

“Are you sure?” he teased. “Because I can’t take it back once it’s out there.” 

Was he enjoying this? Was he drunker than she’d thought?

She lightly smacked his chest. “I’m sure.”

He cleared his throat formally, and she almost rolled her eyes. So dramatic. 

“I was going to answer your question,” he said quietly. “About why I was here.” Gently, he traced her spine with a fingertip. “I am here for _you_ ,” he whispered. “Just you.” 

And how nice was that to hear? That he was here for only her? 

A quiet sigh escaped her, and she shifted against him, cheek against his heartbeat. It was steady, just like him. 

He was her safe place to come back to. Not her anchor, not what was keeping her in one spot.

How in the hell had this happened?

She thought of the first time she’d met him, looking like Lucifer himself, the burning wreckage of the Hindenburg flaming behind him. He’d held her at gunpoint then, their first meeting.

Then she frowned.

No, he hadn’t.

He’d held _Wyatt_ at gunpoint. 

Rapidly, she thought. Had he ever pointed a gun at her, specifically? She’d stepped purposely into his line of fire once or twice, so she couldn’t count those. 

No. 

He really hadn’t. 

He _had_ threatened to kill her. Over a beer and a candlelit table. _You don’t think I will?_ No, she hadn’t. Hadn’t been afraid of him since he’d shot Abraham Lincoln. 

If he’d meant her harm, she’d understood, even then, she would be harmed. 

And now he was here, and hers. Strong arms and broad shoulders and absolutely lethal accuracy with a weapon and the ability to cradle her like she was made of glass. In this moment, she _might_ have been. 

“I’m glad,” she whispered back, finally. 

It was selfish, but she wanted to be someone’s priority. 

With another flash of realization, she remembered that he had let Emma go without a chase. Because of her. Because he had been too concerned for her. 

He’d had the opportunity to take out what she assumed was the brains of Rittenhouse, and he had passed on it. 

She closed her eyes. 

Tried to snuggle deeper into his arms.

He let her. 

Kissed her hair. 

A cuddly, affectionate Garcia Flynn? And she thought she’d seen it all before?

She was starting to realize that there was an entirely separate universe about to be opened to her. 

And God, she couldn’t wait to see it. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
